


This is a Bandit's Life. it Comes and Goes and Them's the Breaks

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, ultimately, knows that neither of them can die here in this empty pool hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is a Bandit's Life. it Comes and Goes and Them's the Breaks

**THIS IS A BANDIT'S LIFE. IT COMES AND GOES AND THEM'S THE BREAKS**  
SHERLOCK (BBC)  
John/Sherlock  
 **WARNINGS** : spoilers for all three episodes

  
 **I**.

John, ultimately, knows that neither of them can die here in this empty pool hall. It’s not ordinary and it’s not sad and it’s not something Sherlock has orchestrated within an inch of his life. It’s the heavy weight of the vest around his shoulders, it’s the smell of chlorine in the air, it’s the faded sleeves of John’s cardigan that he’s pulling over his black gloves, the press of his collar against his cheek as he shuts his eyes at the last moment, the sound of Sherlock’s voice soft and slow and pressed flush above him.

Sherlock says a name before the gun goes off.

John’s name.

  
 **II**.

When things are over, Sherlock smiles in that annoying way he always does, with half of his mouth and most of his eyebrows, and John sighs from his hospital bed and moves his leg with both of his hands out of the sling keeping it elevated. Sherlock is in a wheelchair, but it’s mostly for show and not really because of the skin grafts covering his thighs and calves and some parts of his feet (which have healed as nicely as they’ll ever be), but none of his face, which is just as well because John has always thought it never needed any improvement, anyway.

The first time Sherlock had wheeled himself into John’s hospital room, John had let out a lungful of air he never knew he was holding.

And Sherlock had said, “Missed me, John?”

And John couldn’t say anything above the beating of his heart.

  
 **III**.

Lestrade sends flowers and Mrs. Hudson has left the flat exactly as they had left it, which was spectacularly nice of her according to Sherlock, because, and he gestured openly with his hands, you know what women do when they get worried.

John thinks of Sara and cups of tea on the lie-lo and the way her hair smelled after a shower.

And Sherlock launches himself on the couch and opens his laptop and suddenly it’s like they never left. John lifts his crutches and eases himself into his chair, gripping the arm rests and only applying pressure on his good leg (which is funny to think, because didn’t he have a psychosomatic limp only months before, before he ever even met Sherlock Holmes), closing his eyes for a moment.

The typing of Sherlock’s fingers lull John to sleep.

  
 **IV**.

What surprises John the most is that Sherlock doesn’t even bother looking for Moriarty. There’s no mention of him in the flat at all, except for when John starts and stops conversations in the empty space of their kitchen, where the dirty dishes have piled up beyond repair and where the smell of the head in the fridge still lingers, long after Sherlock gave it a good burial somewhere in dregs of the morgue.

John says, “Sherlock,” in that meaningful way of his when he wants to ask about something that may do – something – to Sherlock’s temperament (who knows really, when Sherlock looks at John with only bemusement in his eyes now, instead of anger or pity).

And Sherlock says, “No, John.”

And that’s it.

  
 **V**.

What’s worse than being caught in an (almost fatal) explosion are the nightmares it leaves behind. John wakes up screaming and doesn’t know why, and, to his credit, Sherlock has learned to leave his bedroom door open for him when it’s the middle of the night and John doesn’t know what else to do with himself but slip between the clean sheets of Sherlock’s bed, with Sherlock’s arm radiating heat through his silk pajamas beside him. Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes, but John knows that he’s awake even so, and he’s careful not make the first move because it’s not him who needs it, he tells himself, it’s not him who needs the touch like he needs to breathe.

Sherlock moves his hand to John’s hand and their arms are pushing against each other, each fighting for space or trying to swallow the other whole or something, something independently of the two men, and they both just let it happen, let the air grow warm around them, and John forgets why he woke up in the middle of the night and Sherlock doesn’t remember how cold it was without John here.

They don’t say a word, but Sherlock’s skin kisses John long after they’ve both fallen asleep.

  
 **VI**.

They don’t talk about it to their friends, or their clients, or to Lestrade even when he asks what happened that day, what happened at the pool that both of them felt like shooting a live explosive was the best option, and John especially doesn’t talk to Sara about the terror he felt all through his bones, the way he couldn’t even picture her face in his mind because all he saw was the gun and, attached to that, Sherlock’s hand and wrist and sleeve, and attached to those, Sherlock’s face looking over to him and silently asking, “Yes?” and John saying yes, yes because if the only way to stop a cold-blooded murderer like Moriarty was to kill themselves, they could at least agree on it first.

They did agree in the end. And, after, when the dust finally settled, they agreed again. And again. No way out but to burn, and wasn’t that just poetic enough for someone like Jim Moriarty.

  
 **VII**.

The bombing at an empty swimming pool got less attention in the paper than some telly star’s lost puppy, but John didn’t mind.

Sherlock, however, was furious.

They left out the part where Sherlock was brave and heroic instead of just a touch sociopathic, and it was all glossed over and buttoned up with Lestrade’s fingerprints clinging to every word, and John watched the red seep over Sherlock’s face as his thumbs moved furiously over his phone’s keypad. John suspected there would be a mass email to the press about the injustices and stupidity of a certain Detective Inspector by the morning.

“They also left out the fact that you were about to sell your country’s missile defense program to an evil mastermind.” John doesn’t even look smug as he says it.

Sherlock stops typing.

  
 **VIII**.

It only takes a few weeks for John to be able to walk on his (good) leg again, even if only for a moment and only if it’s the space between the chair and the couch, and only if Sherlock is there to catch him as he falls with a pained look on his face into the cushions. Sherlock forbids John to ever walk again, which just spurs John to try again, and harder this time, because he’ll be damned if he ever lets Sherlock keep him in this flat all day where just the sight of the mess might make him go mad, nevermind Sherlock’s penchant for guns.

Sherlock questions how long John will have a psychosomatic limp once the cast comes off, and John throws a pillow at his face.

  
 **IX**.

What’s funny is, things on the criminal front are quiet for the duration of their hospital stay, but once they leave, Lestrade tries his hardest to limit his daily phone calls to only once or twice. Sherlock can solve most of them by text, but some are just hard to picture, especially if the crime scene photos don’t even catch a glimpse of the good stuff, the stuff Sherlock needs to solve anything. John begs him to leave, to bugger off, to just get out of the flat, but Sherlock will find a thinly veiled excuse of why he has to stay.

There’s something there that John doesn’t want to think about, let alone bring up in conversation, but it’s there anyway, and it might kill them both. John sighs and rolls his eyes in that passive aggressive way Sherlock hates, and Sherlock will pace around the room with thoughts running wild in his head, and John will shakily get to his feet when Sherlock’s not looking and start down the stairs.

And Sherlock will call after him in that angry way he does, and John will stare up at him from the door and yell, “Come on then.”

And Sherlock will.

  
 **X**.

In the end, everything goes back to being (relatively) normal.


End file.
